Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Please be advised, this story contains: Alcoholism, brief mentions of child abuse, graphic violence, profanity, character death, sexual content
A/N: My original intention with this story was to tell the ultimate Harvey Dent origin, one which would draw on the best of comics canon. Five years and ten drafts later, it has evolved far beyond those goals, becoming something much more personal and original while still remaining faithful to the characters and stories that inspired me. At the urging of BiteMeTechie, I'm posting this here. Enjoy! :)
Half the time, I didn't know what to make of my father.
Mom always brought out the best in him, but even still, I know she was torn. It's one of the few things I remember about her. By everyone's account, she was a saint, and some would say literally. She burned for that man. Deep down, under the love and obligation and politeness, I think she hated him.
No, wait, hate's too strong a word. That wasn't her. She just hated him when he wasn't home. With us. Because that meant he was at the casino's barroom, throwing down the family money. On the dice, on the rocks. But he always came home with at least a little more in his pockets than he took, so what could she say? Luck was on our side in those days. Most days.
It's funny, y'know, they called him Double-Down Dent. Like he was a real tough-guy gangster. Back then, Christopher Dent was virtually a celebrity around Moroni's. You know Moroni's? Of course you do. I mean the original one, right on the cusp between the Narrows and uptown. I heard it was nice: a place where yuppie rubes could feel like they're splurging on opulence while dead crooners play overhead.
It was all bullshit, of course. A façade. These days, it's still strictly VIP's, no poseurs or narcs allowed, but they don't even bother pretending anymore. Used to be you'd have to slip in through the back, or past a maze of halls and guarded doors to find a three-tired amphitheater backed by a bar stretching a mile long. A big band and singer, usually a smoky-throated pale woman poured into velvet, keeping the rhythm going as men guffaw and sob and curse over the dealer's tables.
The real Moroni's. The joint looks like Heaven if Hell's management took over.
And back then, the wiseguys loved Dad. He wasn't in the life, but when he was riding high, he'd buy drinks all around: one for everyone, and two more for himself. All hail Double-Down Dent, Ruler of Roulette. King of Craps. Baron of Bunk.
In my job, I've met some of the used-up old guys who knew him, back in those glory days. When Dad's the topic, the nostalgia high briefly overwhelms whatever's coursing through their veins or brains or lungs, and they just light up. Like they were reminiscing about their oldest friend in the world.
They used to say that he could have entered politics. A Dent in public office. Crazy, right? Laughable. But they say Double-Down could have taken that entire room of mobsters, celebrities, politicians, and old money, and just wrapped them in his hand like a pair of dice.
Sometimes, I just wish I could have seen that side of him. Just once. Instead, all we ever saw was the aftermath.
I mean, sure, he'd come home some nights with the stink on him, but he wasn't out of control. Not really. He'd always make sure to stumble back home so that when he'd pass out, it'd be in his own bed. And sure, it got worse once he stopped winning and started losing. Maybe fate or karma had come to collect on all the good luck he had. If you believe in that sort of thing. But at least he had her. She's what kept him grounded. What kept him going.
And then, not long after my eighth birthday, she was gone. The cancer was quick, small blessings. Those days were hard and only getting harder, but at least we had each other. We always had each other.
Listen. Even when he blew all his cash the night before, he always, always made sure I never went hungry. There were several nights where he'd go without, just so I wouldn't. You understand? No matter how far into the bottle he fell, no matter how… black his bitterness was, he wanted to make absolutely certain that I would be strong enough to live in this city. Because he knew that if I wasn't, it wouldn't even chew me up and spit me out. Gotham would swallow me whole.
So. A couple months after Mom died, we were sitting in the living room watching a Barry Hanson rerun. I was on the couch in a t-shirt and shorts, fanning myself with a newspaper. The sweat on my palms turned black from the newsprint. Dad was in his easy chair, a fresh whiskey and club soda—on the rocks—in his hand.
Barry was defending a woman whose son, a boy about my age, had gone missing. She'd been falsely accused of foul play, and was being tormented by Barry's nemesis, District Attorney Tallman. D.A.'s have never been the good guys in those stories. But of course, thanks to Barry playing both detective and defense, the day was saved. Evil was punished, the D.A. was thwarted, and mother and son were tearfully reunited.
Wait, was it Barry Hanson? Maybe it was Badge of Honor. Or The Grey Ghost? Those were my favorites. Memory has a way of smearing into a blur, doesn't it?
Anyway, the credits rolled. And then, the words spilled thoughtlessly out of my mouth:
I miss Mom.
I caught myself, but it was too late. He made it clear that discussion of her was off-limits. I looked at him now, my hand clasped over my mouth. I had no idea what was going to happen next. Would he yell? Would he cry, break down sobbing?
Still facing the television, he just lowered his eyes, tipping the whiskey and soda to his mouth.
Me too, he said.
I knew he wanted me to leave it at that, but the thought had been going around and around in my head like a carousel those past two months.
I said, It isn't fair.
He gave me a funny look, then broke it off and turned away with a sigh. As if he knew this day would come. He rose, turned off the TV, sank back down, and took another sip. Always little sips.
Where do you think your mother is now, Harvey?
The answer was obvious. She's with God.
No, he said, gently but firmly. She isn't.
But… Mom always said…
Look, I loved Mom. I loved her lots and lots and lots. But she was wrong. There's no God, Harvey. It's very important for you to understand this. There's no God, no Heaven, no Jesus, and no angels, just as there's no Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no Tooth Fairy. There's no Boogeyman, vampires, witches, or werewolves. There's no Devil, and no Hell. You understand? There's no one out there who's gonna save you, just as there're no monsters trying to get you. There's just us.
Justice…?
No, Harvey, he snapped. He closed his eyes, cooled, and said, That's exactly the point. There's none of that either. Not for anyone. Life ain't fair. All there is…
He considered for a moment.
Well. Here. I'll show you.
He reached into his pocket and then pulled something out. I caught a glisten of silver peeking through the cracks between his fingers. He unfolded the fist, and there, in his leathery palm, was a coin. An old Peace Dollar. I reached for it like a talisman, drawing me in. But he pulled away and sealed his hand before I had a chance.
No, no, he said, with a strange edge to those words. This isn't for you. This is your Daddy's good luck charm.
Like Scrooge McDuck's lucky dime?
Dad's stone-face broke into warm chuckles, and he ruffled my hair with that massive paw of his. It wasn't really that big, but to a child of seven, it was like the hand of a giant.
Something like that, he said, smiling. Now, we're gonna play a little game. You like games?
Sure, yeah.
Course you do. Y'take after your old man. Now you pay attention. Y'gotta call it, heads or tails. What's it gonna be?
I said tails. To this day, I don't know why.
Good boy, he said, but his face hardened. As if in resignation. Yeah, good boy. All right. Tails you win, heads you lose.
What do I get if I win?
It's not that kind of game, Harv. You'll see.
He slipped his thumb under the coin, but hesitated. He looked at me seriously, one last time. Making certain that I understood.
It's all just luck, y'see? That's all. Just blind luck.
The coin rang out in a resounding ting as it spun through the air, straight up and curving in an arc before tumbling back down to earth. Within a second's time, it landed flat in his palm with a soft fwap.
Heads.
I lost.
"And what happened then?" Doctor Cross asks, leaning forward on her desk.
I look around, remembering where I am. The office is much darker than when I arrived. A whole hour, and already the session's nearly over. There's a low rumble from not too far off. When did it start raining? I was so absorbed, I hadn't even noticed as the storm rolled in around us.
"Harvey? Then what happened with your father?"
I think about Dad one more time. The warmth of his laugh, the clink of the ice cubes against glass. And those hands. Those great giant's hands, as his fingers closed around the coin, enshrouding its shining brilliance into darkness once more.
"Then he broke my jaw."